


Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

by thefirststep



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20 coda, Afterlife, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Fluff, Heaven, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Reunions, Roadhouse in Heaven (Supernatural), Slow Dancing, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefirststep/pseuds/thefirststep
Summary: Suddendly the atmosphere in the room seems to shift. The whispers die down. The music seems too loud. The dark room too dark and the bright lights blinding. Dean can't tell if it's the drums or his own heartbeat pounding in his ears - why does he even have a heartbeat anymore. He feels like he should have a word with the architect of this special kind of hell because he feels everything way too intensely to be at peace. Said architect is standing at the other side of the room. Trademark trenchcoat, trademark puzzled face.--My take on what a reunion in the roadhouse could've looked like.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

The roadhouse is crowded, the lights are low. From a corner, he hears tentative guitar chords, drifting over the busy chatter. Dean has to admit, he feels incredibly alive for someone who has just recently died. Many familiar faces he has already talked to this evening, who are probably now gossiping under their breath: "A rusty nail! I wouldn't have thought...". He could swear, he hears someone hiss "You owe me 50 bucks". Swirling the whiskey in his glass, Dean has to chuckle. It feels too good to embrace his old friends that he can't even feel embarassed when the first thing they ask is "How did you end up here already?".

Some are thanking him for having a part in this new heaven. Dean isn't quite sure what he contributed to it. He's pretty sure someone else did a damn good job at it. Don't think about it.

 _Why are you thanking me, I'm the reason you're here in the first place, the reason you spend who knows how long trapped in your own memories._ The conversations always quickly shift focus. Maybe he is glad he can tell the story of his death at least. By comparison, it seems to be the least loaded topic. By the third re-telling, it starts seriously being amusing.

He's just had the best conversation with Charlie, who had tackled him from behind and punched him in the shoulder as a greeting. _Truly the little sister I never wanted._

"... Really, you just replaced me with another me? Is she at least evil? Oh please, please, don't tell me she's straight!" So he told her about Stevie and the big snap and the video-call he got after they had said goodbye to Jack. For the briefest of moments he had been worried she might not be back. _What if he returned everyone to their natural universe..._

After it was truly starting to sink in what had happened, Sam and Dean had stood in the middle of a busy street for a few tense minute, neither daring to open their phones, afraid there might not be any messages. But oh, there had been.

"Guys, I have no idea what you did, but we're back, here in the kitchen, as if nothing had ever happened, I can't believe it, I can't wait for you to come visit and tell us what crazy mystical shit you got involved in now!" There had been so many other messages and calls the following days. Dean tries to tell Charlie, this Charlie, about the best parts. About saving the world and enjoying it. He tries to push down the ache that rises in his chest when he thinks of the calls that did not come. And of the reunions that did not happen.

"Do you think alt!Charlie will join us in this heaven after she dies?"

"I've never thought about this... Maybe? I don't know, you should ask..."

Jack? Jack doesn't want to get involved. The other option... he can't bring himself to say it.

"One-two. Soundcheck. One-two." The voice over the speakers sounds slightly metallic. So much for everything being perfect in heaven. _Can't you just wish for the perfect set-up to appear?_

"Well, I think it's starting any minute now. Talk to you later?" _Don't leave me alone with my thoughts_ he wants to say. Instead he settles for "You know, I think your girlfriend might really appreciate there being two of you". Charlie rolls her eyes and punches him in the shoulder once more, barely suppressing a grin. Then, just as she turns to leave, her face turns somber for a moment and she adds "I'm sorry it ended like this, but I'm glad you're here. I missed you."

So it has been lovely, catching up with those he lost and getting to know some that have mattered to them they've brought along for this little welcome party. They pretend it's just a regular night at the roadhouse but he knows they are all just here for him, even if no one mentions it. Well, not everyone.

Dean is nursing his whiskey again, elbow propped up on the bar. He's not sure if it's the alcohol or dying messes with your head, but he trails his fingers along the wood, over the cracks and worn down parts, amazed at how real and authentic it feels. It's not real and yet it's as if he had never left, right down to Ellen nodding to him in passing while hurrying from customer to customer. _I hope you're happy, doing what you did in life. I hope this isn't some cruel heaven trick, forcing you into this for my sake..._ He thinks of what Bobby told him. He can do whatever he wants, have anything he dreamed of. Well now that would require him to know that in the first place. He thought he had gotten the grasp of living, slowely leaving the hunting business behind... Now he feels more adrift than ever. So many choices. So many things left unsaid.

The band has finally started playing. At least they've got good music in heaven. _Didn't know they were dead though..._ Dean's lets his eyes wander over the crowd. Happy, talking people. Almost everyone he loves. Not everyone, sure, but Sam will be around. He deserves a good life and Dean will happily wait for him. He can't wait to hear the stories he'll have to tell when they see each other again.

Suddendly the atmosphere in the room seems to shift. The whispers die down. The music seems too loud. The dark room too dark and the bright lights blinding. Dean can't tell if it's the drums or his own heartbeat pounding in his ears - why does he even have a heartbeat anymore. He feels like he should have a word with the architect of this special kind of hell because he feels everything way too intensely to be at peace. Said architect is standing at the other side of the room. Trademark trenchcoat, trademark puzzled face. Some things never seem to change and Dean's chest is filled with a burst of burning heat that he hopes can be attributed to the last swallow of whiskey he just hurriedly gulped down.

_Once I rose above the noise and confusion_  
_Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion_

Before he can decide what do, Cas eyes meet his. It's not like he can get lost in them, Cas, not much more than a vaguely beige shadow by the door, squints at him as if he's a little taken aback that is indeed him. Yet his mind immediately conjures up the last time he saw this face. The tears. The smile. The "You changed me, Dean." The... He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, trying to force down the memories. Instead he smiles in what he hopes is his most inviting "Come here, I missed you" smile. He wants to run, sprint, jump. Leap through the whole room like a panther. But he can't. He realizes his knees feel weak and he is glad to still be leaning against the bar. _Play it cool_ , he tries to tell himself.

_Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man_  
_Though my mind could think, I still was a mad man_

It's not like there is a script for this. How do you say: _I'm sorry I didn't tell you I love you earlier but sometimes I’m a dense idiot and I’m very sorry it took you dying for my to get my head out off my ass but also HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME LIKE THAT_. When you're not even sure, you can get those words out now?

Because love seems both to monumental and an understatement. Does love encompass:

I didn't want to live a day without you but I tried to. _I tried to enjoy it because I wanted your sacrifice to mean something. I wanted to be happy for you and I think I was succeeding even though I thought there'd be always a hole in my life that I could never fill. But I would have built around it. I know now we don't have to replace the one we've lost. We find others to bring joy to our lives and we honor the holes in our hearts for we were so lucky we got to know them._

But also: _I failed. I wanted to be all of this for you and I failed and it was all for nothing._

He wish he still had the glass of whiskey, something to hold on to. He should've asked for a refill. His fingers are tingling like he's hovering above a live wire.

And still, does love encompass: _I wanted to be the person you thought I was. For you. But maybe also for me. Because I trust you more than anything and when you said I was full of love, how could I ever doubt it?_

He must look like a deer in the headlights. The colored lights are gliding over the room like waves. Maybe a hundred human lifetimes have passed since his eyes first met Cas'. Or maybe just enough seconds that the lights he stood under have now shifted from blue to purple.

_Carry on, my wayward son_  
_There'll be peace when you are done_

Cas is steadily moving across the room towards Dean, struggling through a sea of moving bodies. How many ways are there to say: "Not now, man. Let's enjoy the moment, let us talk later."? By now, he surely should've come up with at least one or two. Maybe he should go meet him half-way. But then they'd be standing among the people dancing. No, better wait.

And then Cas is in front of him. Dean's mouth feels dry, he's sure he opened his lips to speak but his mind is blank.

Cas is offering him a hand. 

Dean's eyes move up and down. There is Cas, right in front of him, bathed in what is by now pink light, wearing his trench coat in pristine condition as if it had never been touched by black goo. His face is unreadable but there is a softness and calm to it, Dean can't remember seeing on him before. He doesn't seem to have any intentions to speak.

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion_

_Tossed about, I’m like a ship on the ocean_

He is holding out his hand. By now Dean must be staring as if Cas grew a third arm. This is all wrong. He had imagined their reunion quite a few times since Bobby had welcomed him. It had always been just the two of them. Dean would've been the one to make the first step. Hugging Cas and clinging to him like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. And then when he finally felt like his head was above water, when he could breathe again - then they could've talked. But this? He didn't plan for this.

"Come on", Cas says quietly as if he can't believe he's forced to ruin the moment by speaking, but with a smile and a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. When had he become the self-confident one and Dean the confused mess that doesn't understand what is happening?

_I set a course for winds of fortune_  
_But I hear the voices say_

Suddendly, he's being pulled into the room, away from the bar, the one thing holding him up, right into the crowd. He's holding his breath. And maybe this is heaven after all because he's pretty sure he should have passed out from lack of oxygen by now.

He feels like he's in a trance even when he gets an elbow to the rib, followed by an "I'm so sorry, really.." and then almost trips over someone's legs. It's all happening to excruciatingly slow and too fast, like a slide-show he can't really take in. He thinks all eyes should be on him, but at best there seem to be a few sideways glances and soft smiles. Someone nods encouragingly. Dean has no idea where Cas is dragging him, but he is very aware of how warm his fingers feel in his. With calluses and cracked skin. Fingers of someone who has lived a life, of someone who is here. And real. This time, Dean is sure this is not a mirage. Because there is no way he could've wished for this.

_Carry on my wayward son_  
_There’ll be peace when you are done_

When Cas has found a quieter spot, a bit to the side of the crowded heart of the room, Dean finally lets out the breath he has been holding. There still seems to be a steel cage constricting his ribs, but he finds it in him to say. "Cas, what the hell?" He intended it to come out angry and irritated. _Why did you leave me like this. Why did you not show up sooner. Why did you not come for me on earth, I thought you were gone for good._ But it comes out quiet and broken and desperate. More of an: _Why are you here after all that has happened and why aren't we talking and what makes you think I'm deserving of any of this..._

But instead he is finally holding Cas in his arms. The lights aren't fully reaching the spot they're standing in but even in the dim light he feels like he can see the universe in Cas' eyes. As they look at each other, all of Dean's doubts and fears start to fade. Cas is humming contendly, adjusting Dean's arms a bit until he's not clinging to him anymore but they can sway to the music. Dean is still focused on Cas' face and the promise in his eyes. He wanted to beg "Don't ever leave me again" but he doesn't think he has to. He thinks he can see stars and galaxies and the beginning and end of time in Cas' calm blue gaze. God's right hand, the architect of the afterlife and beyond.

And yet he's right here, looking at him, as if he's just been gifted the world. As the music drifts over to them, from somewhere behind his back, Dean buries his face in Cas's shoulder. He smells like old books and wildflowers and a hint of iron. Like the bunker library and that awful laundry detergent Sam bought when he insisted they can't keep wearing jackets flecked with blood, grease and monster viscera. Stains that you can never truly get out by conventional means.

He smells like home.

  
_Lay your weary head to rest_  
_Don’t you cry no more, no_

"Do you like it?", Cas whispers warmly. "It's not a mixtape, but I made it for you." Dean grins into his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little head canon I needed to write down to get it out of my system.  
> What the reunion at the road house could've looked like without Jimmy and finally lamp.


End file.
